What the Tides Wash Away
by HM Frost
Summary: In all his days of knowing her, he likes to think he has developed a knack for reading the words she could never express aloud.


The white snow is almost black at nightfall, peppering his hands delicately before dissolving quickly on the warmth of his skin. Jaime wraps his furs tighter and curses the insufferable cold in his usual, slandering manner. _They never lie about winter, these northerners._ He proceeds carefully, watching the soft reflections beneath his toes shift in the dim light of the moon. The face staring up at him is imperfect, fragmented in the opaque yet transparent surface and Jaime has to appreciate the irony. A true reflection is not the identical image of the observer, but instead is an exhibition of one's character. The mirror below him is cracked, damaged, just like he is.

Castle Black is brimming with men coming from all over the known world to fight and die for the good of the realm. Over the forlorn howl of the wind, he hears the buzzing of soldiers preparing for battle, and the familiar clang of steel on steel from the practice yard. Denigrations and assessments of sword technique are said with lighthearted, laughing tones, and an argument or two bring heat to an otherwise harsh, winter day.

Jaime has lost track of how long he has been here as an honorary guest of the Night's Watch. A year perhaps? Maybe more… The days are short, the nights are long and he has spent too many of them alone. He thinks of Cersei, now a shattered remnant of his past buried within the thick walls of Casterly Rock, and realizes that he can no longer hear her voice. What did it sound like all those years ago, when she expressed her adoration for him those innumerable times? The sound of her sonorous sighs as she reached absolution is a meager echo, fading away into an abyss at the back of his ancient mind.

"Very good, Pod!"

He hears her voice before he sees her, and wades over to the practice yard to study the source. Grace bleeds from every swing of her sword as her paradoxically cumbersome body weaves around the arena. Her grunts are in sync with her rival, her thrusts issued with incalculable power, and Jaime examines the vehemence in those illustrious eyes of hers. Podrick Payne is struggling to keep up with his opponent, yet he survives longer than most when faced with the Maid of Tarth – longer than Jaime, even. No doubt the boy had learned from the best of the best.

Brienne offers encouraging words to her colleague when the sparring is finished (predictably, she emerges triumphant), and Pod returns a healthy smile that flatters his otherwise plain face. Her large hand pats him on the back and ushers him away and she watches Podrick leave, veneration demarcated by the whites of her eyes.

A thin layer of snow has settled impossibly on her head; pallid flakes glisten on pallid skin in the moonlight, caught in the tangles of her imperfect braid. _She's let it grow out._ Her breath escapes from her swollen lips in long wisps of steam, its tendrils dancing impishly in front of her before disappearing into the night. And there is something perplexingly endearing in the way her chest rises and falls like the tides of an unrelenting ocean. It is no secret that the wench is substantially lacking in the feminine qualities normally equated with her sex - she had always appeared rather mannish to anyone who had cared to notice- but she never seemed less of a man than she did now.

"I had thought it impossible for you to look a woman," he says, announcing his presence to her. Almost imperceptibly, Brienne flinches before whirling around to confront him. She tries her best to hide the dread in her face, but the colors are painted visibly on her skin. In all his days of knowing her, he likes to think he has developed a knack for reading the words she could never express aloud.

"Ser Jaime! I…uh…"

"I see you haven't lost your wit." His words are said blithely and there is a hint of fondness in them that surprises him. She grimaces, yet walks towards him with a few, quick strides. He almost snickers at her ludicrous gait and the way her large feet nearly trip over each other in the snow, but he thinks the better of it.

The fact that the wench is taller than him still takes some getting used to. In his memories she always seems so small. Perhaps that was because that was how she presented herself; Brienne rained insecurity and was never the woman of confidence that his twin sister had been.

It was eternities ago, but the memory of Brienne's betrayal was unsullied by time, a footprint in the sand that could never be washed away. When he closes his eyes, he can see the lifeless face of Lady Stoneheart twisting into a malevolent grin as she dissolved into the shadows. He will not forget the feeling of the rigid and abrasive surface of the rope that swathed his neck - _sharper than a sword_, he remembers thinking.

"The boy has grown considerably." He doesn't fail to note the gleam in her eyes at the mention of her traveling companion. "How old is he now?"

"Ten-and-five, Ser. He is young and yet he has seen too much."

_Who has the time to be young anymore?_ Jaime had been young once, but that was in the days before Aerys Targaryen and even then, he was conscious of the iniquities of the world.

They observe Podrick together; the boy is elated by the introduction of a stalwart knight who presents an array of weapons that the surrounding parties are encouraged to choose from. Pod selects a broadsword that is half his weight with an amethyst encrusted hilt that is profligate in this violent tundra, but he assesses it, extending it outward in all directions to test its distance. His small face burns an impeccable shade of red when he is reprimanded by a nearby soldier after inadvertently slicing open one of his sleeves.

He sighs and gestures towards the encampments stationed just outside the practice yard. "Shall we leave this damnable cold? You may be a bear, wench, but I am only a man."

They gather around a bonfire with fifty or so freezing men engrossed in a song Jaime has never heard before. The story leaves something to be desired, but the tune is attractive enough that it is tolerable, and every man sings it with such gratification that it even becomes enjoyable. When there is no more of the story left to be told, the crowd disperses and it is only Jaime and Brienne. He tries not to see the way the firelight emphasizes the freckles on her skin, like bronze starlight on a white canvas, and achieves nothing but futility.

"There is not much snow on Tarth," Brienne proclaims, stretching the palm of her hand in an attempt to catch a flake. The heat of the flames melt them before they can reach her. "It is only ever in the mountains, except once when I was five. I was overjoyed at the sight of it, but I never suspected it would be so cold. For days, I suffered from a sickness because I had decided it a grand idea to play in it wearing only a nightgown. Later, my father told me: 'The pain of the experience only allows one to look back on it with kinder eyes. For without agony, how could we know beauty?'"

There is a flicker of wonder in her eyes that Jaime suspects he'll never truly comprehend.

She rises from her place on the log and shifts her sheath into a comfortable position. "I do not ask for your forgiveness, Ser, nor do I deserve it after what I've done. My only wish is that you would forgive yourself." The wind calls to them both, but neither has an answer. Brienne simply stares at him, her eyes as blue and as deep as the sea. He doesn't look into them for he knows that if he does, he will drown.

It is when she is walking away that he realizes he loves her. Jaime sits beside the dying fire, also faced with the realization that he can never tell her.

_"Take it. I am unworthy of such a sword."_

_She lays Oathkeeper at his feet, her damaged leg quivering under her weight. He tells himself that he is irate. Stupid, idiotic cow! Lacking in brains as well as beauty! But he says nary a word. Her face doesn't falter, and yet he can hear every thought in her head. The warrior woman has broken a vow and, as punishment, has broken herself._

_This is the last time he sees her._

**HAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM**

A horn echoes through the night, signaling war. Instinct overwhelms him and Jaime reaches for his sword with his right hand, an attempt made futile when he remembers that that hand had been lost to his caprices years ago. As he springs into action, the ground rumbles with the sound of ten thousand stampeding feet. Everywhere, there are men rushing to don their armor and collecting their weapons. A procession of soldiers head towards Castle Black to await their orders. Brienne is there with Pod, a hand on his shoulder and a pacified gaze directed at Jaime. She knows as well as he does that it is time.

After the Lady Stoneheart encounter, he had abhorred the wench for her treachery and even convinced himself on multiple occasions that he was glad to be rid of her. And yet here they stand on the battlefield and neither of them with a single a word on their lips.

_She is still so calm, all these years later._

The snowfall is denser, a raging tempest of frost and ice capable of rendering a man blind. He cannot see and he cannot hear his beating heart over the wrath of the wind. His only solace is the torch he carries in his hand, threatening to die every second. Jaime slices at anyone who dares attack: cutting, slashing, burning, cutting, slashing, burning, cutting, slashing, burning. There is no precision in his movements, no strategy behind every swipe of his sword. It feels animalistic to him, incompatible with his nature, and yet he cannot stop. Here, in the dead of night with winter as his companion, he is only surviving.

Jaime has lost track of how long he's been here as a fighter in the name of the Night's Watch. The night seems infinite. And he has spent too much of it alone. The sun has risen, but he can't recall seeing it rise. It had been disguised by numerous fires – fires that allowed the dead to remain the dead.

"Ser Jaime! Ser J-Ser Jaime!"

At first he doesn't recognize the voice that seeks him, almost ignoring it until a hand tugs violently at his left arm, forcing him to be attentive. Podrick Payne is almost a man grown, but it is hard to miss the water in his eyes and the wetness in his voice. In that instant, Jaime knew.

Jaime Lannister was not one to cry. He did not cry at the death of his father, he did not cry at the death of his sister, and he does not cry at the death of his friend. He is covered in Brienne's blood from carrying her away to a spot untarnished by battle, but he pays no mind to it. His green eyes, as cold as the ground beneath his feet, merely watch as the inferno that engulfs her remains thaws the snow into a pool of water beneath her lifeless body.

Podrick lifts his head from behind his knees. "I would go with you, if that is your wish, Ser. I could be your squire. Ser Bri - Lady Brienne would've liked that."

_No doubt she would've. But she will like this even better._ "That will be unnecessary. You have more than proven yourself worthy of knighthood." The smile on the boy's face could carry the world. Jaime draws his sword, but it is not truly his sword. It belonged to a knight who was more than he ever will be. "Kneel."

And so Podrick does, falling as a boy but rising as a man.

The Sapphire Isle matches its namesake; the waters are as clear as glass, and at the same time they are as blue as the sky. A man could forget himself in the waves that rolled ashore. The mountains are even more impressive than Jaime had imagined, dwarfing the village with its majestic beauty and yet, it was a god protecting his people from harm, bringing life in the form of waterfalls that hung like veils from the mountainside. He stands on a hill in simple attire, smelling the salt of the sea breeze that permeates the air. It is a peaceful scene, but he is not at peace.

Evenfall Hall is small; atop a cliff, it confidently overlooks the sea. The sun sets it ablaze, the multicolored windows glowing profusely in its light as if the castle was the source of the sun's immeasurable power. The grey bricks are old, weathered by inexorable surfs that crash against them, demanding to be obeyed.

He is ushered into the Hall by two knights and is greeted by a man aged by grief. The Evenstar sits at an empty table, his only friend the goblet of wine in his hand. Malice is in his eyes – as blue as the sea – as they observe Jaime's presence. The inside of the Hall is almost as beautiful as the outside, the light swimming through the windows, the colored glass creating rainbow shadows on the floor. Jaime looks below him and sees that he is standing on a patch of yellow.

"Why have you come, Kingslayer?" There is an unmistakable ache in his voice. In a few quick strides, he stands face to face with Lord Selwyn Tarth and says nothing. Jaime hands the father the bundle he had been carrying since his departure from the Wall and leaves without another word. His back turned to the past, he hears the shatter of glass, a splash of liquid, and the Evenstar's tormented cursing of the day the infamous Jaime Lannister was ever born. Still, Jaime says nothing. That is the most he can give to someone who is just as alone as he is.

"She loved you," Hyle Hunt tells him after searching for him for hours, finding him on a desolate beach with the tides swelling around his bare ankles. The gulls and their vociferous cries overhead nearly drown out the knight's voice. "She would never say it, especially to me, but she did. She left to fight with you. Tell me, Kingslayer…were you worth dying for?"

Jaime is silent.

He expects the punch that Ser Hyle drives into his face, but it surprises him all the same. Face first, he falls into the sea and swallows the salty water bitterly.

"_You _are the Stranger, Ser. Death follows where ever you tread!"

Footsteps recede and the memory of them is washed away. Jaime spots his reflections in the ripples of the water. The face staring up at him is imperfect, fragmented and Jaime has to appreciate the irony. A true reflection is not the identical image of the observer, but instead is an exhibition of one's character. The mirror below him is cracked, damaged.

Just like he is.

There is no one left for him now.


End file.
